


The Conductor of Light

by mightymads



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24701116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: Holmes’s client is murdered by the adversaries, and Holmes blames himself for it. Watson comforts Holmes after the case of theFive Orange Pips.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 102





	The Conductor of Light

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to **Recently Folded** for betaing, helping out with ideas, and being awesome!

Hours crawled by as I lay in the darkness on my narrow bed. A fierce gale howled outside like it had yesterday. Every time I closed my eyes I would see Openshaw in his rain-sodden waterproof, smiling shyly and apologising for the disturbance. A faint orange scent permeated my small bedroom, my fingers still sticky with dried juice. I had thrust five pips in an envelope and sent them off to Savannah, Georgia. A pathetic, pointless act. It would not bring Openshaw back. I should have made him stay here, at Baker Street. He would have been safe with Watson and me, and this morning we would have set out to investigate all together. Instead, my very clever advice had pushed him right into the enemy’s clutches. What a blundering dilettante. _Amateur_. I had had the gall to deem myself more proficient than the police when in fact I was just a self-important fool. 

If only it were possible to turn back time. I should have guarded Openshaw as the apple of my eye: danger had been dogging his every step, and by some miracle he had managed to make it to me. Any sensible person would have realised at once that he should have been hidden in a safe place, not urged to run around alone at night. I had prided myself on my instincts. Had there been any, Openshaw would have lived. 

The rage I had felt upon learning of his death had burned out. So had the energy with which I had tracked down his murderers. Seized by apathy, I was unable to move a muscle, to fetch the morocco case. There would be no euphoric rush in my veins; I didn’t deserve an easy escape. This time I would face the facts since they had always been the very basis of my so-called method. I was a failure, not a pioneering professional. I didn’t even have a degree. An ignoramus with superficial, unsystematic knowledge. Mycroft had been right on all accounts. He had scolded me for abandoning the university, for not pursuing a well-defined career, for turning to narcotics. In my hubris I had thought to prove him wrong whereas he had merely pointed out the real state of affairs. The causes and effects were clear: lack of knowledge—poor evaluation of circumstances, no career—subpar practical experience, cocaine—a softened brain with no common sense. Up to a certain point my illusions hadn't harmed anyone, but now the inevitable had happened. My client, a man who had relied on me, was dead.

A quiet creaking of the door interrupted my reverie. Watson entered my bedroom, clad in his nightshirt and dressing-gown, a candle in his hand. It was well past midnight, but it was obvious he couldn’t sleep either. His beslippered feet stepped almost noiselessly. It cost him a tremendous effort, no doubt, considering the leg pain foul weather brought him. John cast a careful glance into my direction. Seeing that I, too, was awake, he put the candle on the bedside table and seated himself on the edge of my bed. 

“Sherlock, don’t do this to yourself,” he said softly. 

I averted my eyes and didn’t reply. As always, he worried about me, he wished to help and offered his comfort. I wasn’t worth any of it.

“You couldn’t have predicted the outcome,” he tried again.

“Yes, I could and I should have,” I snapped.

“You are human, and to err is human.”

“Please leave me, John. I’d like to be alone.”

John fell silent, upset by my churlishness but hardly surprised. I hated myself for hurting him, yet I would only hurt him more if we kept on. He seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion because he sighed and got to his feet. A terrifying thought crossed my mind as I watched him leave. What if he left me alone indeed? For good? One day he was bound to become disappointed and realise that the hero he glorified was in fact a mediocre bungler.

My John, whatever was he seeing in me? I wasn’t handsome. I was egotistical, arrogant, and misanthropic. Most people couldn’t stand me, including my own brother, who was fond of me but preferred a limited exposure. John and Mrs. Hudson were two exceptions, both long-suffering and infinitely patient. While Mrs. Hudson wisely maintained distance as behooved a proper landlady, John received the entire impact of temper tantrums, superior attitude, and being taken for granted. I was blessed with his friendship and something I had never dared to hope for—his love. He was in a union persecuted by law and had a mentally unstable, good-for-nothing partner. It was only a matter of time before he grew tired of me.

However, to my surprise, John’s steps didn’t retreat further than the sitting-room. A thin line of light glimmered under the closed door, and there was a barely discernible sound when he settled down on the sofa. He gave me the solitude I had asked for, yet remained within calling distance. Was it intuition or his loving heart? Either way, he had anticipated my fear. Such moments remind me that I shall never get his limits.

The glimmer of his candle was like a beacon in the vortex of blackest thoughts. Gazing at it, I drifted off little by little, and then found myself on the Embankment near Waterloo Bridge. It was one of the small landing-places for river steamboats; at this hour and in such foul weather there was nobody around. The bridge was still quite crowded, but this area would be practically unseen from there. Below the steep pier the muddy waters of the Thames were swollen with the endless torrents that kept pouring from the dark sky. I turned around at the sound of the approaching four-wheeler. The cab stopped a few yards away from me, and a moment later a familiar stately figure got out. It was John Openshaw. Deadly pale, he was followed by a rough fellow who was pointing a pistol at him. They seemed not to notice me. No matter how I wished to help Openshaw, I was as if frozen to the spot, my body refusing to obey me. All I could do was watch. The rogue made Openshaw walk to the very edge of the pier.

“I swear, there are no more papers,” Openshaw was pleading. “I’ve given you the only one that was left.”

The rogue didn’t listen; he shoved Openshaw in the chest, and Openshaw tumbled down into the river. Violent gusts of wind carried away his desperate cries as he splashed, struggling to stay afloat. Numb, I just stood there while Openshaw gasped and coughed, the waves choking him and his wet clothes dragging him down. His head was barely above the surface. He was fighting for his life, but his strength was running out quickly amidst the storm. His hoarse voice was growing weaker. Some invisible force held me in place, and there was nothing, nothing I could do—

“Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!”

I came to my senses with a start, John’s anxious face looming over me. He stopped shaking me by the shoulder and breathed out with relief. Still disoriented, I sat up, taking in my surroundings. Safe and sound in my room, aren’t I? Unlike Openshaw, who was in the mortuary, with his lungs full of water. I should have protected him. My plan had been utterly stupid: of course they wouldn’t believe his word, deeming him privy to their atrocious secrets. Any attempt to persuade them otherwise had been doomed to begin with. 

John put his arms around me and pulled me close to himself. I had no energy to object that I deserved contempt, not compassion. He held me for a long while, stroking my back. I craved his touch and his scent, even though I had no moral right to be comforted.

“Would you like me to leave?” he asked at last.

“No, no. Stay,” I said, clinging to him.

He kissed me on the forehead.

“Everything you’re thinking right now is not true, Sherlock. You had to act, and time was limited. You did all you could for poor Openshaw.”

“He was so young. He could have been saved had it not been for my incompetence.”

“His case was at a very advanced stage.”

The medical parallel struck me. It was exact.

“What do you feel when your patient dies on the operating table?” I murmured.

John pulled back a little to look into my eyes. 

“I suppose the same as you do now,” he admitted, his expression sad and earnest. “Every surgeon has to live with it.”

“And every surgeon accepts it?”

“If he doesn’t, he quits. Or he chooses to carry on and improve for the sake of other lives he can save.”

I remembered how crestfallen John was on occasions when it was beyond his power to help a patient. Yet if he chose to quit his practice, he would lose his purpose. Nothing good would come out of that. Many people would be affected, especially the poor folk. That’s what kept him going. He carried on, and I had to do so as well. I had to keep trying, to hone my skills, and reflect on my mistakes, not only in work, but in my behaviour too. I would give myself a probation period. In case of another failure with tragic consequences I would quit. But there wouldn’t be another. There wouldn’t be.

John nodded, having followed the train of my thoughts. I moved to make space for him, and we lay in my narrow bed together, pressed to each other from head to foot.


End file.
